


Ghost Rising

by SuperNova53



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst and Humor, Belonging, Definitely Not Supersoldiers, Department K Escapees, Friendship, Gen, Weapon X Project
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12797886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperNova53/pseuds/SuperNova53
Summary: If you couldn't live up to the Super Soldier standard then the only way out of Department K's Weapon X Programme was for everybody to think that you were dead. Deadpool runs into an old acquaintance from Weapon X in an unlikely place. Ghost could have done without Deadpool accidentally drugging Spiderman and Fury r-e-a-l-l-y could have done without Coulson having a melt down.





	1. Prologue - Escaping Department K

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Notes: So this is the Prologue to 'Ghost Rising', just a warning that it's a bit graphic and hints at torture etc. The story comes from the idea that Deadpool wasn't the only one to escape from Weapon X/Department K. I do have an outline for the whole story and low and behold something I wrote actually has a plot! I haven't decided where to put this story as a category so for now I guess it can sit in Deadpool, but I hope you like it.

##### Remote Canadian Territory – Department K Facility

Department K was an intimidating building. A monolith of steel beams and smoked glass surrounded by a large concrete lot and a seven-foot wire perimeter fence; it kept the occupants _in_ and the locals _out_.

Situated close to the Canadian/American border in a location that was known to few and remote enough so that you wouldn't chance upon it by accident.

The few and far between visitors to the building needed at least two levels of security clearance; and would be privy to the slightly dated public face of the facility which proudly boasted of its historic ties to Stark Industries and still road off the Super Soldier success which nevertheless continued to secure the department enough funding to proceed with its 'Experimental Treatments' and remain operational on the peripheries of local government.

The reality was: nothing worthwhile had come out of Department K since the mysterious death of Howard Stark and his wife Maria and it wasn't the honorable establishment that it once was.

Experiments moved to the underground levels of the building, hidden from the public eye in basements that went several levels deep, carved straight out of the rocky Canadian terrain. Underhand tactics took place to secure new test subjects; the ambition and credentials of new employees went unchecked and some of the more seasoned 'Doctors' were left to their own devices in their laboratories and workshops to play god; in fact, death of subjects at the hands of Department K employees became such a part of the day to day activities that there was a procedure written for it and filed on the Company's intranet under: 'Death in Service' cross-referenced with 'Suicide'.

Zander Rice flashed his clearance card at the security guard on the main gate, he was acknowledged with a disinterested grunt and waved through.

Pulling his beat-up Toyota Yaris into an empty spot, cursing when the tracking pulled it in the opposite direction to the steering wheel, he'd had the damn thing a few months and it was all too apparent that it was _definitely not_ practical for the location he had chosen to work in.

Unsurprisingly, the road to Department K wasn't well maintained and heavy rain, ice, hail or general harsh Canadian weather conditions always cleared to reveal a new crater in the tarmac.

He had worked at the Department for a little over six months as a mortuary assistant and sometimes as an extra pair of hands to some of the longer serving Doctors. His father had got him the job there when he had flunked out of medical school. Zander's status as a failed doctor didn't seem to bother anyone because he had the basic medical knowledge and-as he found out; what went on in Department K wasn't exactly legal, or ethical, or even _humane_ in some cases.

Several fingerprint scans later and he was standing in his 'office'. It was quiet and cool, lit by the overhead fluorescence. Nodding in greeting to his colleague who was busy looking over the chart of the latest new arrival laying peacefully on the central table. Zander leaned over, inspecting the body whilst sipping his morning coffee. "Hello Miss Warner." Recognising her from Killebrew's workshop. He smiled down at his 'patient' her skin tinged blue, freezing cold to the touch. "Such a shame," he tsk’d fingers brushing unruly brunette locks away from her face.

"That she died? Or that she was a mutant?" the other assistant piped up looked from the charts with a smirk as he handed them to Zander, between the two they had about as much empathy as a wrung-out dishcloth.

"Ilona Warner, active X gene. She was brought in as part of the 'Testing on Mutants' programme two years ago. Abilities: 'Intangibility Reflex' and, following a reaction to the enhancement serum some telepathic abilities, concentrated in the left eye." Zander looked up from the notes nodding at the fabric patch partially obscuring her face, "Fatal reaction to a 'Healing Factor Graft' … What does Killebrew want us to do with her? She was one of his favorites."

"Take samples, dissection, catalog anything unusual, then stick her to burn with the rest of them I guess."

"Let's get more coffee first, put her in the freezer." With that the body of Ilona Warner is slid into one of the empty refrigeration compartments, still dressed in the gown she died in, ass bare – dignity be damned; shackles which blocked her intangibility reflex still clasped to each wrist, the repetitive flash of the small LED's on each signifying they were still functional.

***

Dr Killebrew flicked the syringe once, twice hoovering over Wade's left arm "So what does this one do Doc?" his 'patient' chimed shifting as best as he could against the restraints, angling his head to have a better view and twisting so Killebrew couldn't find a decent spot to stab him with the needle.

The 'Doctor' clicked his tongue then his fingers, Ajax was at his side in an instant, wide hands held Wade's arm steady as he strained against them "Jeez, Doc your pet goon needs to work on his bedside manner." The comment earns Wade a growl from Ajax who tightened his grip going as far as to crush and break the smaller bones in his wrist. Wade yelps wanting nothing more to snatch his arm away and rub at his broken appendage; staining he finds it’s impossible. “Hey, don't worry about it, what're a few broken bones amongst friends? For somebody with 'no feelings', you sure get angry a lot." Wade manages to laugh as there was a pinch on his skin as in went the needle [They're drugging us again], down went the plunger {Yeah, no shit} and out came the ominous purple liquid.

There's a rushing in his veins as the liquid spreads; Ajax releases his grip to reveal the cracked and weeping flesh beneath turning the amethyst hue of bruising.

Wade Wilson isn't exactly used to his new look but he's a little surprised when the bruises don't fade instantly, and a slight wiggle of his hand sends an agonizing pain up the nerves of his arm as bone scrapes bone, yep that's still broken. "Question… where's my healing at?" There's a smirk on Killebrew's thin lips as he looks down at his 'patient'.

Wade's arm has started to turn purple and wither, it's spreading up his shoulder, across his chest making it hard to breathe.

One last vein struggle with limbs he could no longer feel and the icy numbness spreads through the entirety of his body, choking on his own limp tongue when he tried to draw another breath; Killebrew leans over the lifeless body of Wade Wilson.

"Well he served to be of use one last time, now we know how to negate a healing factor." There's a smirk of triumph coupled with a hint of satisfaction because a lot of people will pay good money for the serum, and because Wade was as obnoxious as they come and despite spending most of his time in the workshop gagged and bound still managed to stir up mischief like it was his only purpose in life. Killebrew briefly mused that maybe it had been, but the thought was fleeting what did it matter? He was dead now; "Send him to the furnace with the others." He calls to Ajax with a wave of his hand. He complies, without complaint or empathy, because Ajax is just an empty emotionless shell who blindly does as he's told.

***

Arriving at the morgue, Ajax doesn’t register shock or surprise when he finds Zander Rice bleeding out on the cold metal floor, panic-stricken across his face and guts in hand desperately trying to push them back into the large gaping wound in his stomach that they came out, slipping and sliding on his elbows in the rapidly expanding pool of his own blood that’s congealing and mixing with his other vital bodily fluids currently leaking out. 

He holds a bloodied hand up to the Automaton recognizing him as one of Killebrew's goons, _"Help me,"_ It's a pathetic plea that comes out as a barely audible muted whimper. Ajax simply tips the body he brought with him into the convenient chute which feeds straight into the disposal furnace, it's not lit this early in the day; as far as Ajax is concerned, that's the end of Wade Wilson and the man on the floor is as good as dead. He looks down at Zander who's coughing and choking on his own blood as it trickles out from his paling lips, almost quizzically, asking him with his eyes: _‘Why aren’t you dead yet?’_ Then he steps over him, large shoes stick in the blood and leaving an enormous footprint.

The man on the other side of the table is long gone, he's had more humane treatment than Zander a neat slash to the neck, jugular hanging out still oozing, his vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling and lying in a pool of his own fluid, he didn't look to have put up much of a fight.

Ajax is programmed to understand that the death in service protocol applies to staff as well as subjects; he's efficient, the lifeless body is chucked down the same place he chucked Wilson, and he ignores the feeble protests of Zander who weakly pushes against him with the last of his strength, before he too is dumped down the chute.

Ajax does his paperwork and goes as far to request a clean-up in the morgue, not once does it cross his empty conscious-less mind to question how the two assistants had ended up in such a state.

_Earlier..._

Ilona wakes up gasping like she has emerged from water; her lungs are desperate for air, even the artificial-far-too-cold-to-breath air which is currently all she has available, it rips through her like sandpaper catching on a soft surface.

She's in the dark, her uncovered eye won't adjust because there's no light here aside from the small flash of the LED on her shackles; except she can move now, she's not strapped to a bed her limbs are… _Free, they’re fucking free._

The shackles, the damn shackle they’re just hanging on her wrist like bracelets; she almost laughs a giddy-heady, delirious laugh, that had if of escaped her chest would have come out as maniacal cackling.

She wiggles her legs and arms without limitation – well almost, they abruptly come into contact with the metallic sides of the small space she's in.

It's all it takes before she is on hyper alert, being restrained is one thing but small spaces, she can't do. She can hear her own rasping breath amplified in the confinement as she clutches at her chest; the cold from the refrigerated metal is seeping in from all angles.

Panicking hands move to claw at the walls and do little but slide against the smooth surface, legs that feel weak and useless but harbor the memories of being strong once boot desperately at _anything_ to try and find a way out.

There's a pause when the ground beneath her shifts, she kicks again not noticing the bolts of pain that should be shooting up her shins from a kick that hard, light starts to come in through a small gap as the ground slides with her on it. She’s on runners, she uses her hands, clammy palms providing extra grip upturned on the metal surface above her she pushes, sliding out with relative ease.

Spinning in a haphazard circle on legs that falter and tremble, it doesn't take much to process: she's in a morgue.

It’s empty, there was nobody around to see her come back from the dead, her legs feel like they might give out as she is hit by a wave of relief and she stands still to let in sink in; jumbled thoughts start to clear and her attention’s on those forsaken shackles that got slapped on her two years ago.

This is her chance to get the damn things off, she grabs a scalpel just as the doors swing open, the brief respite of relief evaporates as in an instant and she's flipped the position of the surgical tool in her hand, holding it out like a weapon; sure, it's not the Kusari blades she favours but _it's something._

There's a familiar rushing in her veins as the fight or flight instinct kicks in, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle at the sensation and her mouth fixes its self to a snarl, of course she's going to fight, it's what she does, goes from zero to butcher when threatened.

She lunges at the first person through the door, knocking him over the central table and to the ground, skittering tools and trays to a frantic metallic crescendo and a primal scream from deep within her. Bare legs, having recovered their strength and muscle memory, wrap around him in a crushing grip, holding him in position as the scalpel cuts through the delicate skin of his neck like butter; he barely has a chance to register what’s happened before the warm liquid gushes from his open jugular his hands fly up in vain as he gargles and stops struggling against her thighs. The air fills with the thick coppery tang of spilled blood.

In a flash, she's back on her feet, nostrils flared and baring her teeth she rounds on the other man who's stood frozen to the spot, cornered by a wild animal.

Zander has seen some truly abhorrent things during his time a Department K; but it still never prepares you for when a test subject comes back from the dead wielding a scalpel and kills your colleague right in front of you, his brain felt like it was firing on all the _wrong synapses_ , messages to run, sound the alarm, fight back were all getting mixed and all he could do was stand rooted to the spot, eyes bulging he thought he might forget how to breathe as she drew closer holding the bloodied scalpel out in front, chest splattered red making her look like a psychopath.

She makes a lunge for his throat, going in for the kill, he manages to muster enough brain power to put his hands up and she drags the blade along his now exposed forearm making him shriek and spraying them both with blood; she's too close for him to get away and he feels the sharp pain in his stomach before he registers what has happened. She's dragging the scalpel across his abdomen cutting through muscle, flesh and organs it's making a sickening sound, like a sharp knife cutting into raw meat. The sound is as bad as the pain and Zander wants to black out, wished he could pass out to the sweet ignorance of unconsciousness, instead he screams, shrill and milk curdling then pitches forward arms flailing almost comically as she steps back to see him fall, he watches in a panic as the wound gapes open feeling sick to the stomach that he's desperately trying to get back inside his body.

Ilona finds one last use for the trusty scalpel, adept fingers jimmy the clasps of her shackles until there is a stratifying click and they pop open; she looks one last time at the writhing body of Zander Rice, and the still-ghostly pale one of his assistant with an air of disgust. It's not personal but there's no sympathy in her one visible eye because she learned long ago that Department K Employees deserved no mercy, she also decided long ago she wouldn't hesitate to kill one on sight, should her freedom ever be up for grabs.

She stands over Zander watching him crumple and flinch away as best he can, she spits on him with nothing but pure venom in her eye so green in the light it looks like poison. Then the oh-so-welcome feeling of being intangible settles on her body she hasn't felt it in two years; she's weightless, untouchable and most importantly she's free.

_Much later…_

Wade opened his eyes; it felt like effort, everything felt like effort. He's rung out and splayed awkwardly on an uneven surface and vaguely aware something heavy is resting directly on top of him.

It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust and his senses to come back online. It's the smell that hits him first "What the fuck is that?!" {It smells like trash on a hot summers day} [No that would be the smell of death, look around dipshit] Ah, good everybody's OK! Turning his head to the left he's nose to nose with somebody dressed in a lab coat "Whoa shit! Sorry man, you frightened me!" He laughs [Wade…] "So, did I miss a party _or what?!_ " [Wade…] he sits up hefting the dead body that's draped across him off his lap. "Well, would you look at that, my wrist isn't broken anymore!" He exclaims standing as something shifts underfoot, he grimaces squinting at the scene in front of him. [WADE, as much as we all enjoy the false bravado, we should get out of here] {the fuck out…}.

Against his better judgment, Wade looks around for an escape route, doing his best to ignore the three or four dead bodies that are down here with him, it's hard to tell an exact number as they are all a tangled mess of limbs.

His clammy hand moves to rake through his hair that's no longer there as he spots a hatch on the other side of what he has guessed is a furnace.

The space inside is small and every jerky movement he makes on tightened muscles that are ready to run seems to shift him too close for comfort to the long-dead residents. His hands slip on the release valve of the door before it opens; Wade has never been so grateful for the sharp hit of fresh air that rushes to meet him as he clambers out on his hands and knees. [That was…] I don't want to talk about it.


	2. What Happens in Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after escaping the Weapon X Programme, Ilona has moved onto more worthless endeavours.
> 
> Wade's out partying in Las Vegas with Weasel - or me filling in a gap - how Weasel ends up being left behind in Vegas.

**Las Vegas – Three Years After Department K Escape**

"Come on Wade, not again…" Jack 'Weasel' Hammer eyed the 'Mystery Shot' Wade had presented him with, (for the fifth time that night) this one looked truly repulsive, it went from creamy brownish liqueur floating on the top to a clear liquid at the bottom finished with a splash of red through the centre of the drink which had dragged down some of the cream making it look like there was a brain (or worse) floating in the middle of the glass; _as if he wasn't feeling nauseous already._ Wade smirked from under his large hood.

"Bottoms up Weasel!" as he downed his own. Weasel watched as he grimaced at the taste and just about suppressed a gag [OK, you need to stop this that last one was _chewy] {Urghh}_ OK maybe no more shots? Just gambling and lap dances? "Gambling and lap dances!" Wade shrieks vocalizing his thoughts without engaging his brain, nothing new there really; Weasel is busy choking on the last concoction Wade brought to the table, he wasn't expecting it to be chewy either.

There's little resistance as he's dragged up from his seat by the larger man and off to the next gaudy club to lose _even more_ money. Weasel couldn't help but wonder as he looked down the strip with blurry eyes and a long sigh that it was probably a close approximation to what Wade Wilson's brain was like, all the time because Wade didn't have an 'off switch'. Flashing neon's, overlapping and blurring and not giving a clear message, incomprehensible noise that was hard to distinguish where it was all coming from, Wade had energy to spare and he's been bouncing around since they arrived which was some four or five hours ago, all Weasel wants to do right now is sleep, make any excuse just to get away. Instead, he gets dragged into a Strip Club, OK so he wasn't going to complain about the half-naked women gyrating on the tables, but it was getting exhausting having every single sense assaulted at once.

Wade leads Weasel through the crowds of people up to the bar; the dim lighting lets him blend in a little bit easier, his arm keeps jerking away every time Weasel gets distracted by one of the dancers who are deliberately weaving through the crowd brushing against anyone to earn an extra buck. We've lost him; Wade looks back in time to see Weasel get dragged off to a private room by a stunning blonde with some exceptionally large assets catching Wade's eye in time to flashes a thumbs up. [We aren't rescuing him from those…] {Theoretically, _could you_ suffocate in boobies, I mean, what a way to go….} Wade frowns and continues to the bar. The dull effect of the shots starting to wear off, he orders two bottles of vodka and a bucket of ice, ignoring the questioning look from the bartender as he drops a crisp Benjamin into his hand and tells him to keep the change.

Somebody appears next to him, one of the dancers, she's oblivious to his presents and leans over the bar to get the tender's attention and asks him for water. She catches Wade's eye, not because of flesh on display, had that of distracted him he would have been lost to one of the private rooms long ago like Weasel. She catches his ear because of the way she talks, _he knows that voice,_ and she's a very long way from anywhere she would call home.

She's tall (or that could be those killer heals) brunette, hair short and cut at a steep angle from the back of her head to the front, all muscle and taught pale skin, with curvaceous hips that gave her the perfect hourglass figure; but it's when she turns, her face, the left eye is covered by a strip of fabric, well that's familiar... Surely not? Right? [Maybe?] {Closer look?}.

Dumping the contents of the vodka bottles into the bucket he slides along the bar, nudging her with his hip. "Going for the pirate look sweetheart?" She spins at the familiar voice, green eye glinting as it's caught by a strobe; she looks Wade up and down, cupids bow lips curling up into a smirk of recognition.

"No," stepping forward, hand reaching for the edge of his hood. "But if that's what you're into, it'll cost you extra." Agile fingers sweep the fabric away from his face, she's one of the few people who doesn't balk at the sight, instead, she returns the lopsided grin she gets.

"I thought you were dead," Wade says smiling and handing her a crazy straw, she looks at it, bemused, but takes it none the less, "Healing factor took then?" Leaning over the bucket and inspecting its contents she quirks the one eyebrow that's visible then dips the straw beneath the ice, lips closing around it, her face flinching at the sting of neat alcohol.

"Something like that," She speaks a little strained with a throat that just been stripped by vodka.

"So, you still going with the British thing then?" [She is British you idiot, she's always been British] {even I think that's a moronic question-} "Yeah and you're a moron-" Her eyes snap up straw dropping from her lips.

_"Excuse me?"_

"Sorry-said that out loud didn't I? So… How comes' you're not dead?" He questions sipping from the bucket and feeling the brain freeze from the neat iced vodka hit him with some ferocity.

"I was." She pauses sipping again as Wade does the same. "I think.” Cheeks hollowed she gulps some more before continuing, “I woke up in a morgue." She shudders at the mixture of the memory and the cold from the liquid sliding down her throat, "I try not think about it anymore," there's a silence between the two filled with Wade’s loud slurping as they both drink, then she states, "I think the only way out of Weapon X was death-" pauses, swigging a mouthful from the bucket again, the contents rapidly disappearing along with her rationality to think straight-dancers weren't supposed to drink whilst they were working, hell it's not like it's her only job. _"If you couldn't live up to Super Soldier standards."_ She says pointedly, nodding clumsily to Wade, straw stuck to the gloss on her lips. "How'd you…. How'd you get out?" Wade shrugs feeling the effects of the alcohol on his coordination and draining the last of the liquid.

"They thought I was dead…" The bucket’s empty save for a few chunks of ice, they drank it like it was water in a desert.

They make eye contact before dissolving into shrieks of laughter and going for a clumsy high five, both missing and swatting at nothing but air, "It's… it's the elbow remember… watch the elbows!" Wade wheezes out [Why is you both being dead so funny, you have got some real problems...] {what's the thing with the elbows again?}.

"Wade…. Wade, Wade, I've not seen you in years, you wanna, you wanna get out of here?" She slurs stepping, with a surprising amount of grace, out of her heals and dropping about five inches in height, "Here gimme your... Urghh, gimme your hoodie, I'm not dressed for the occasion." She gestures down at herself in dancer's gear. Wade wouldn't have complained had she wanted to parade around dressed as a stripper, hell it would have earnt him a few looks of admiration, Ilona looks good since the last time he saw her, still a little on the thin side but filled out in all the right places. He slips his hoodie over his head nonetheless and watches with amusement as she gets tangled in the arms and thrashes them above her head, sniggering into the fabric that’s bunched up around her face, then _eventually_ succeeding in getting it on only to have it swamp her and hang down to her mid-thigh. "Hey! Hey Jimmy!" She shouts, gesturing to the bartender from earlier. "I quit babe!" She giggles pulling a wad of screwed up fifties from her shorts and depositing them onto the bar; 'Jimmy' looks stunned, looking from her to the body temperature cash, before he shrugs in acceptance, waving her off with a nonchalant hand and casually slinging the cloth he was using to polish glasses over his shoulder.

It's their reunion neither asking what the other has been up to because let's face it, either way it wasn't going to be pretty; both carrying on like they were regular old friends and not old torture buddies who had kept each other sane (as best they could) during the Department K shit show.

Weasel long forgotten the two head out. "So do I still call you Ilona?" Wade laughs.

"When I'm not working!" She smirks back and Wade could have sworn that she winked at him-it was hard to tell, he could only see one eye as she looped her arm through his. "Come on, we're…. we're drunk, we're rich, we're in Vegas, Vegas," she exaggerates before shouting, "Everybody thinks we're dead, let par-tay!" Wade corrects her.

"I kind of have a reputation of not being dead, like a turd that won't flush, I just keep coming back!" [Did you just quote Waterworld?] {Oh my god, that's outdated even for me…} Ilona whoops with laughter down the street as they head out.

The night consists of enough alcohol to fill an oil tanker; Ilona dancing through the Bellagio fountains, kicking up water with her bare legs, droplets falling on her face and smudging her heavy makeup, the hem of Wade's hoodie catching in the basin-until she was escorted away catching her foot as she exited; she threatens the guard with a flip knife, Wade can only assume she also pulled from her underwear (just like the cash), the guard makes a grab for her only to catch nothing and fall face first into the fountain before the two hightail it down the strip in a fit of giggles and bloody footprints.

They are witnesses to a couple get married – as Elvis – by Elvis; Wade offering his critique that there was three too many Elvis's at that wedding, as he dons an Elvis wig and catches the bouquet, he precedes to present it to a horrified registrar on one knee with a "Urhurhur." Right before they are kicked out of the chapel.

They ride the strips rollercoasters and the mix of g-force and alcohol has Ilona running to the exit and promptly vomiting all over the pavement, cursing Wade who's laughing somewhere behind her between wretches, he insists on riding the coasters again, dragging his reluctant companion by her arm jabbering away that she couldn't possibly be sick again now that her stomach was empty, she's not convinced.

The night ends with the two sat on the roof of The Palazzo hotel; legs hooked over the edge. The dawns first light hinting on the horizon. Wade peers down looking like he is judging the distance should he fall.

"There's no way this is _the real_ Tony Stark's number." Ilona has Wade's phone having found it in his hoodie sometime earlier, she was impressed it had survived the night without a scratch, now she sat scrolling through the contacts. "Why would you have it?"

"I _told you,_ I know somebody famous, and for emergencies and stuff. I dunno"

"What kind of emergency would warrant you call a Playboy Billionaire?" She screws her face up before she gasps in realization. "Did he build you that crazy teleporter you told me about?" [She doesn't know he's the Tin-Man, also I doubt she would believe you sometimes Team Up with the Avengers and I use 'Team Up' loosely] {Yeah, it's not like they're ever happy to see us}. Wade looks at her with a devious grin on his face and a wicked glint in his eye.

"No, I stole that from Oscorp but that's irrelevant. You don't believe it's really him, ring the number and see." He shrugs, Ilona narrows her eye and defiantly she moves to hit the dial button calling Wade's bluff. "Ah, ah, ah!" He tuts, "I meant to say _prank call it,_ Bart Simpson style, I _dare_ you!" She smirks.

"Challenge accepted Wilson because I'm calling bullshit on this right now," she hides the ID, clears her throat and dials; "it's ringing," she announces to Wade feeling childish; there's a click as the phone is answered.

"Hello?" She can't deny it sounds convincing but she's not about to back out of the dare, she lays her British accent on thick any hint of the slight American twang it's picked up in the past few years disappears.

"Hello, I'm looking for Mr. Myfrensuck, first name Olaf." Wade has his fist in his mouth stifling a laugh, the phone is on loudspeaker and the person the other end repeats the name back to her.

"Err... Olaf Myfrensuck?" Distant laughter of the other people who must have been in the room comes through receiver, "Oh for fu- Wade, I know that's you, you think hiding the caller ID works on me-" She scrambles to hangs up, fingernails clicking on the touch screen to end the call nearly dropping the phone in the process before gawping over at Wade who's rolling on the rooftop. She looks incredulous.

"That was Tony Stark." She pauses starring down at the phone in her hand before she shrieks. "I can't believe you just let me do that, the guys a-"

"He's an arrogant ass. Don't worry about it, and don't fangirl out on me. Seriously though - _Olaf Myfrensuck?_ "

"I… I panicked, I didn't know what to say… But …. But, why do you know _Tony Stark?_ And he calls you Wade?! Like you're on first name terms…" She trails off shaking her head in disbelief.

"Got a crush, have we?" He teases bumping her with his shoulder forgetting he's got at least 100 lbs on his slim companion, chuckling as he watches her almost fall sideways and struggle to right herself.

"No, firstly he's not my type, and secondly, more importantly, I've done my research, he can class himself as a _philanthropist_ all he likes, but he's still a Stark, as in son of Howard Stark, as in man behind the humble beginnings of Department K …" She shudders and Wade doesn't have an answer for that, because when you're awake, living in the now and having fun it's easy to push it away and pretend it didn't happen; but every now and again something from the past gets dredged up, not that's he's not happy to see Ilona alive and sort-of well, living a sort-of life as a Las Vegas dancer, he had hoped that they could gloss over the whole torture thing.

He watches waiting for some sort of cue as she leans forward dangerously far out over the edge of the building. [Don't let her fall] {maybe make a joke?} Wade holds his breath; but relaxes slightly as she leans back on her hands, bare feet outstretched into the open air, no sign of the deep gash she got on her heal climbing out the fountain a few hours ago.

She feels the wind rush around her. Her eye is staring far off into the distance when she starts to speak again, "Wade," her voice is detached, any hint of inebriation induces slurring long gone because of the rate that they both metabolize alcohol. "Do you ever think about Department K?" She doesn't wait for him to answer before she continues, but the mention of 'Department K' sends a spike of dread from Wade's gut to the back of his throat making it ache. "It wakes me up in the night.” She sucks in a breath, hands moving to her lap and going restless. “Because I think I can hear Ajax coming down the hall. I didn't see daylight for…. For two years; they pumped me full of drugs till I didn't know whether I was awake or asleep-hell sometimes I didn't know if I was even still alive.” Her voice strained she pauses inhaling a deep uncertain breath. “They made me indestructible, _just to see if they could."_ She spits, hand raking through her hair. "I'm… I’m indestructible and I…" She starts to laugh, rocking slightly as her hands wrap her shoulders, it's all a bit manic (even by Wade's standard) before she doubles over leaning over the side of the building again. "I can't do small spaces, like claustrophobia level one thousand. I can't even draw the curtains in my apartment. I want the daylight to be the first thing that I see. I want to be ready if they ever come back to finish what they started, because, because I never knew why they came for me in the first place, I didn't sign my life away like you did-" Wade cuts her off there.

"Hey now, _that's_ not what happened- "

 _"I was _eighteen_ Wade..."_ She shouts, not at Wade, it’s just emotive but Wade backs down and goes quiet nonetheless, "Until then I thought the worst thing was when my mother died. How Wade? How can I even call Department K a nightmare,” Her voice goes small and pleading, she speaks again in almost a whisper. _“It's still with me when I'm awake."_ Her hands are clenched into shaking white-knuckled fists, her eye is fixed cold and hard with tears threatening and making it glisten, it's at that point Wade realises that whilst her mind's in better shape than his, and she's not as separated from the real world as he is; she's far from over the Department K fiasco, it's also at that point he has an ill thought out, but not completely crazy idea.

"You wanna finish it before they do?" there's a glint in his cobalt eyes. He's thought of it more than once; because you don't get mad, you get even.

**Remote Canadian Territory – Department K Facility – Three Years After Department K Escape**

Deadpool and Ghost watched as the flames caught another mass of explosives they had chocked the building with, the glass windows blow out sending an enormous plume of noxious black smoke into the otherwise crisp Canadian sky, they were standing far enough back so as not to be in any immediate danger but close enough you could feel the intense heat melting the steel beams. It was hypnotic; both standing without a word until Deadpool shrieked hands flying up to his head and startling Ghost out of the trance she had fallen into. "We left Weasel in Vegas!" it was the first moment of clarity either of them had had since their chance meeting in Vegas four days ago.

The days that followed had been a blur of hastily planned revenge. Ghost had long ago put the two and two together that Wade Wilson, her sort-of-acquaintance-due-to-some-horrific-circumstances was Deadpool-not that it had been hard, it quickly became public knowledge that Wade Wilson was Deadpool, although she was probably the only one to sigh out relief and mutter: _“Thank fuck for that.”_ At the news. She was long gone by the time Ajax came to dump his lifeless body into the furnace chute so never knew the details of his escape, or release, she wasn't entirely sure and the mumbled answer she got when she asked was something along the lines of: "Traversing a pit of death.” Not wanting to turn every moment they spent together into a painful memory replay, that was where they had both left it. Ghost not prying, Deadpool not giving her anything more.

Deadpool had let out an appreciative whistle when he saw the Ghost costume for the first time, it was in two parts, a leather under armour which consisted of a bodice, boots and vambraces, several holsters strapped to thighs, hips and arms hiding knives and shivs and those all-important Kusari blades concealed on her forearms ready to spring out and be swung by their owner with the deadly grace of a perfectly contrived gyroscope. The second part being the stealth-black ninja-style suit over the top. It offered little protections against-well, _anything_ and the fabric look so thin and porous that it would rip straight off her frame should it so much as catch in a door; but it hid her armour, weapons and the fact that she was female whilst still allowed her to move freely; her costume was finished off with a black mask which when she turned in the right light has a ghostly print of a skull. She flipped a large hood over her head which earned her a laugh from Deadpool "Hey! Does the Taskmaster know you ripped off his look? Just asking." Her response came out electronic and distorted through her mask.

"No, because it would make him jealous; because I perfected this look." She gestures down at herself before correcting Deadpool "It's Ghost when I'm in costume or 'Bailarín de espada' – but only if we're in Mexico."

"Blade Dancer – wait Mexico?" {She's got a point about the Taskmaster, we should totally send him a picture 'How to Do Skull Face Right'} [What was that about Mexico?] Deadpool nods to Ghost and to himself "So we're in a similar line of work?" he pauses "When you aren't stripping for money, stripper by day mercenary by night?" he asks, Ghost shrugs.

"I'm more of a hired thief, stalker, facilitator of illegal activities, I don't enjoy the killing as much as _you._ " Deadpool can't argue with that, a thief who can walk through walls is a valuable asset. It seemed that when you escape your own personal form of hell and come out visibly and mentally scarred-a life of crime, or at least _questionable activity,_ was the easier option than actually sitting down and dealing with what happened in order to become a functioning member of society, and as it turned out both Weapon X rejects were very well connected with the criminal underworld and between them amassed enough C4 to well…. Blow up and old Canadian Government facility.

Neither had needed direction to get back to the remote facility, both seeming to remember the path that they had clawed back to civilization in little more than a thin hospital gown three years previous. {With their asses hanging out-don’t forget about that part. The answer my friend is blowing in the wind. You know what I’m saying?} [No, nobody does now shaddup!]. 

Conversation on the way was stiff, Ghost distorted mechanical voice made Deadpool uneasy, scratch that _uneasier_ than he already was. It's on the tip of his tongue to tell her to take off her mask, let him talk to her face with its soft calming features and expressive eye that he had so often seen brimming with compassion and sadness during their time at the Department, but could so flippantly switch to a petulant green glare of hatred when Doctor Killebrew hovered around her touching her hair and skin. Wade shook the image from his mind so violently is made his body shake. "You alright?" Ghost paused having taken the lead in some determined attempt to face her fear head-on. She half turned, skull mask peeping out from under her hood.

"Ha- well yes! Just thinking." Deadpool stalled trying to sound convincing.

"About what? Most people tell me thinking gets you into trouble." Ghost snorts out a dismissive laugh as she waits for Deadpool to answer.

"Ummm..." He tries to think up something convincing swinging his arms, then crossing his arms only to uncross them again, and eventually rubs at the back of his neck. "What were you doing in Vegas?" he asks trying to hide the way his voice raises a pitch at the end. Whether she heard it or not Ghost plays along with the obvious lie.

"Old habits die hard, I picked up where I left off when I was 18, just in a new place with greater opportunities for rebellion.” She catches Deadpool looking at her. “I was a shit after my mum died and I would sooner have wound up those that offered help by acting out than accept it.” She explains before conceding. _“Only now,_ I'm not even sure who I'm rebelling against. I’m not even sure I’ve got anyone left who would still care…" Wade watched her slump, his hands go to touch her shoulders and offer some form of comfort a - _‘Why didn’t you come and find me?’_ on his lips, but he hesitates, gloved hands poised before he decides against it, opting to walk next to her in silence wishing he hadn't asked.

The old Department K monolith was desolate when they arrived, quiet and still looking like a sleeping beast; a cool wind was blowing the surrounding trees and rustling the waist-high weeds which had sprung up through the cracks in the empty parking lot.

Stealth was Ghost's specialty, her intangibility made light work of obstacles and made her silent, but they hadn't needed it. The door to the security shack hung off its hinges gaping open to reveal the bare electrics inside; the perimeter fence was torn down in places and wooden boards were over the lower level windows. It was almost a cliché. "It's abandoned," Deadpool states the obvious navigating his way through the Triffids in the old car park, hacking a few with his katanas whilst Ghost floats through with ease, right up to the old glass public entrance where she hesitates and stills, examining the large padlock holding chains that are just starting to tarnish in the harsh weather conditions. She looks back at Deadpool who's by now whooping and jumping around slashing weeds up and making Kung-Fu noises; shaking her head she pulls out a shiv. Deft hands twist and jab each barrel of the lock until the padlock falls open, hitting the ground with a loud metallic 'CLUNK'. Deadpool is behind her again as she shakily reaches out to open the door. "Can't you just walk through it?" he pipes up.

"Then how would you get in?" She asks as he moves to help her open the stiff doors; seized hinges whine in protest and stop with about a foots' clearance. Ghost is slim enough to slip in; Deadpool manages to wedge himself in the gap, broad shoulders getting stuck.

"Couldn't you just… take me with you? It works like that …. Right?" He says shoving and freeing himself.

"Yes, in theory, but it would make you feel …. Strange. As in everybody's always sick the first time they do it. I really can't handle you being sick right now, I'm barely holding it together myself." She gestures down at herself Deadpool picks up on the slight shaking of her hands and twitchy movements as she shifts from foot to foot whilst she talks.

"Fair point." He mutters following her out into the old offices.

The air is stale, thin beams of sunlight are managing to creep in through the gaps in the boards on the windows, paperwork is haphazardly strewn around, draws are open and ransacked, filing cabinets are tipped over with their contents missing. Ghost moves over to one of the desks picking up a calendar, it's gritty under her gloves and covered in a thick layer of dust, "Nobody's been here in three years…" She's talking to Deadpool, not sure if she's more relieved or disappointed at finding it deserted, it’s giving her an oddly conflicted knot in her stomach. She turned to her companion finding him examining an old photocopier.

"Twenty bucks says there's a butt print on the glass of this." He moves to open the machine. Ghost plants her hands on her hips and sighs loud enough for her distorted to pick it up before turning away. "And _you owe me_ twenty bucks." She hears him laugh out from behind her and gives into his goading, turning around to see Deadpool sat on the printer with, _she can only assume,_ his bare arse.

"I hope the glass breaks." She huffs turning and stalking off, pausing when she hears the distinct cracking and the inevitable shriek from behind her; she finds herself sighing and shaking her head for the hundredth time that day wondering why the hell she had agreed to go along with Deadpool in the first place.

"I'm OK!" he bounds up beside her.

"Good, you finished pissing about? Because look." Deadpool follows the direction she's pointing through yet another door which looks like it's been kicked in to reveal a decimated stationery cupboard and a large set of out of place metal doors which lead to the lower levels.

"After you my lady." Wade sweeps an arm bowing slightly and gesturing to the closed entrance as Ghost walks straight through it. There's scuffling and the sounds of electrics shorting followed by the doors swinging wide open to reveal Ghost standing the opposite side at the top of a flight of stone stairs, a few scorched wires in hand having destroyed the access panel.

Deadpool leads the way, the air starts to take on a familiar dampness the deeper they go. The damp is getting under his suit and making the impossibly clingy spandex cleave tighter to his body and for a moment he finds himself envying the loose fit of Ghost costume.

They are both relying on emergency lighting to see, apparently nobody thought to cut the electrics, it's odd and eerily quiet not just because of the lack of conversation between the two, there's literally not a sound to be heard. When he reaches the bottom of the staircase he glances back at Ghost wondering if the lack of daylight and low ceiling is setting off her claustrophobia, she's still following a few feet behind and he can't help but notice her weapons are drawn ready in her tightly clenched hands. "You good Spooky?" he asks striding forward down the empty corridor kicking doors open as he goes.

"There's no-one here, it's been deserted." She answers standing, arms dropped at her sides with her weapons put away, looking into an empty expanse of a what used to be one of the workshops.

"Hmm, I noticed that too." Deadpool is behind her as she crosses the threshold. Her soft footsteps echoing eerily with the strange acoustics you get in long rooms with low ceilings. She sinks down onto the concrete floor placing a gloved hand on the cold surface. 

Deadpool watches in the scant light from the doorway, he doesn't want to set foot in the old workshop, he can still recall his rough treatment. How the pain had seared through his flesh when the original dose of serum had flooded his body; his suit has stuck to his skin and it's chaffing uncomfortably, he slides a finger under his collar trying to loosen it. His chest is getting tighter-he really doesn't like this [Oh no, don't tell me you're going to have a panic attack, not such a good idea coming here was it?] "Shut up!" He shouts startling Ghost up from her position on the floor, she looks over watching Deadpool rubbing his temples. Jumping up to be by his side, he doesn't notice her pulling her mask back down over her face.

"We should go, they're not here anymore." She places a gentle hand on Deadpool's shoulder with a little shove.

"Yeah, let's blow this place." His voice is a little hoarser than usual as he ducks his shoulder out of Ghost's reach and all but runs back the way they came.

**Meanwhile: Triskelion Building – Theodore Roosevelt Island**

"Director Fury, Sir, please excuse the intrusion but we've had a report that the old Department K building- _it’s on fire._ " The breathless SHIELD agent pants leaning on the door handle for support having pelted up three flights of stairs and a seemingly endless corridor, to all but fall into the Directors office interrupting something which looked important.

Nick Fury fixes the young agent with an icy scowl. Department K had once been the place legends were created; it wasn't until a few years previous anybody had thought it could have been anything else, but it was the appearance of Deadpool on Director Fury's radar that had prompted THAT investigation. Nick felt the bile rising in his throat-the things SHIELD had found, torture, mass graves and cremations, people who had been reported missing, mutants dissected, the list was endless, the funds they had spent on therapy for some of the Agents who had worked the case, they still hadn't finished reviewing all the data and files that were recovered from the site-it had been put on hiatus until further notice; but at least the funding had now been halted and department had been disbanded. It did still concern Nick, sometimes it was even one of the many things that woke him in the night, that a few of the registered staff members were still MIA.

"Do we know what has caused it?" He asked snapping back to the present through gritted teeth, the agent had had time to catch his breath.

"It was an explosion sir," he faltered he had heard from others that Fury did not take bad news well and he had been unfortunate enough to take the call.

"Fucking spit it out boy, I _don't_ have all day." Nick barked as the young agent swore that he saw the man's hand inching closer to the pistol that was laying on his desk.

" _An intentional one._ " It was almost a whisper to the Director who was out the door of his office pulling his jacket on and storming to the helipad; leaving a stunned Philip Coulson still sat the opposite side of his desk who looked at the young agent in exasperation; his latest report on the progress of the Avengers Team forgotten.

**Remote Canadian Territory – Department K Facility – Three Years After Department K Escape**

"Who's Weasel?" Ghost turns to look at Deadpool, pulling her gaze from the fire for the first time in what seems like hours – she wanted to watch the damn place burn to the ground, make sure it was gone. Deadpool speaks, flailing and gesturing with his hands but his words are swallowed up by a loud swooshing of a Blackhawk Helicopter coming into land.

The duo turn to watch, Ghost recognises the eagle insignia on the side, it's the SHIELD insignia, feeling sedated as she watches the skids touch down on the grass, this whole thing feels like a dream; her eyes are stinging because of the smoke; the steadily slowing blade of the Blackhawk creating eddies in the air and blowing even more of the noxious fumes her way. Deadpool's pretending to check his nails through his gloves as a man with an eye patch disembarks and spots the two; he's shouting something and gesturing wildly with a pistol in one hand. Ghost goes on edge her weapons are back in her hands in an instant taking a few defensive steps back; she watches as Deadpool gives a mock wave as the man with the eye patch steps into his space, the rota blades have slowed, and she can just about hear what he's shouting.

"DEADPOOL! I SHOULD HAVE FUCKING KNOWN I WOULD FIND YOU HERE, I TELL YA, WHEN I'M DONE WITH YOU YOU'RE GONNA WISH YOU COULD DIE! YOU'VE DAMAGED GOVERNMENT PROPERTY- "

"TECHNICALLY NICK, IT'S NOT US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY." Deadpool manages to counter before he's cut down by Nick shouting and all but foaming at the mouth.

"YOU AND YOUR NINJA FRIEND OVER THERE ARE UNDER ARREST." He jabs a finger in Ghost's direction. "YOU'RE BOTH COMING BACK WITH ME RIGHT NOW." Nick is taken a bit aback (although he'd never admit it-or show it) when Deadpool shrugs, briefly leans back to his 'Ninja Friend', then heads to the Blackhawk with little resistance; gesturing for his companion to follow; he crosses his arms, watching as the dark figure hesitates before falling into step behind the mercenary. He follows already feeling a tension headache threatening like a throbbing toothache in his brain, not only did he now have to babysit a bat-shit crazy pain in the ass, he also had to figure out who the hell Deadpool was hanging around with… and babysit them too. Nick muttered, "For fuck sake." To himself as he boarded the helicopter knowing it wouldn't be the last time he did so that day.

**Triskelion Building – Theodore Roosevelt Island**

The flight back to the Triskelion Building did little to help Nick's head and he spent most of it grinding his jaw; both detainees had been ordered to deposit any weapons they might be carrying into a metal crate. Nick and the agent who had accompanied him watched as the two took it in turns; one would drop a flip knife for the other to drop a sword with a clatter.

The SHIELD agent who was acting as an escort was doing his best to remain stone-faced and professional, keeping his rifle levelled and still as the larger of his detainees in the red and black suit deliberately flinched and jerked weapons out from seemingly nowhere, laughing as the agent's stance would suddenly go on guard and his trigger finger would twitch ever so slightly. "I don't like this one Nick, he's _jumpy._ " Deadpool emphasizing his last word as he dropped a grenade into the crate and leaned forward into the agent's space to watch him retract away and aim the rifle at his chest. Nick moved from behind his jittering team member.

"Sit down and shut up, like your friend over there." He nodded to the dark figure sat passively to Deadpool's right; they had given up the lets-see-who-can-be-the-bigger-badass-with-the-most-weapons competition when Deadpool had started pulling out firearms, evidently, that was not their style.

Once everybody was cuffed, sitting comfortably and had been alleviated of their personal armory, Nick stalked to the cockpit leaving the two alone with their escort who by now, an hour or two into the flight, was slumped back into a chair with his eyes slowly fluttering closed.

Ghost leaned across to Deadpool shouting but not shouting over the sound of the helicopter. "Wade! Why are we _still_ on this helicopter? They took my stuff! And your stuff! Shall I maybe get the cuffs off and get us out of here now or what?"

To Ghost, the agents, the helicopter, the handcuffs, none of it was a hindrance she followed Deadpool onto the chopper because as he had put it: _"It was a free comfortable ride back to civilization, hell, anything is better than the way we got here."_ Ghost had been inclined to agree as she nodded and followed his lead to play obedient prisoner, she trusted Wade she really did, she hadn't quite sussed out that putting your trust in Wade was like putting fruit in a blender and then deliberately leaving the lid off, you still came out with a smoothie at the end but it made one hell of a mess; _plus_ neither had fond memories of the closest town to Department K, with a delightful population of trigger happy backwoodsmen, (and women-if you're being picky and you can look past the fact that they also had an admirable amount of facial hair) all about as helpful and welcoming as a fart in a spacesuit, not to mention it's ever sort after location roughly to the east of butt fuck nowhere.

"Sit tight Spooky. They won't keep us long! Then you can run off into the shadows, or go site seeing, you know, whatever." Deadpool answers over the sound of the helicopter fiddling idly with the cuffs around his wrists; Ghost shifts back into her chair as the chopper strafes and causes the agent, whose snoring had been audible above the sound of the rota blades, to fall out of his seat and land heavily on his shoulder with a bewildered snort, he opens his eyes to two masked faces looking at him in amusement, and Director Fury's boots.

"SYMONDS! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON THE FLOOR?!" he hauls the agent to his feet managing to maintain his own balance as the helicopter lands "RIGHT WE'RE HERE."

_Later…_

"In light of a recent…" Nick pauses furrowing his bow in search of the right word – revelation? Discovery? He tries again "In light of new evidence, and the services that you provide to SHIELD, I'm going to overlook your latest…” He coughs almost choking on the words. _“Minor indiscretion."_ Nick opens the metal crate he hefted onto the interrogation table, it doesn't surprise him when the cuffs seem to fall off Deadpool's wrists, he wonders just how long they have been broken and how long Deadpool's been indulging everybody that he was secure. He watches as the mercenary runs fond hands over the two katanas before sliding them onto his back, pulling his mask back over his face as Nick speaks again "You're free to go, but you can bet your ass I'm going to be keeping closer eyes on you from now on- "

"EYE." Deadpool corrects holstering his pistols "You're going to be keeping a closer EYE on me from now on." He looks up, Nick Fury's face is fixed in a snarl [Now you've done it dipshit].

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BUILDING!" He roars as Deadpool skids out into the corridor {oh shit! he gets angry faster than the hulk} and nearly collides with a rather unkempt looking Philip Coulson.

"Whoa man, I know it's late, but you look like shit!" He observes.

"Always a pleasure Wade, I see you've worked your usual magic on Nick, we'll all be dealing with his bad mood for the rest of the week." He sighs, pulling the knot of his tie loose and rolling his sleeves.

"It's not _my_ fault he's got one eye and can't take a joke about it." He retaliates, clasping a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "Also, you've let me go, can I have my friend back now… Please?" he sees the color drain from the other man's face before he hesitates.

"She's going to be staying with us for a while, we have a few more questions for her." He says meekly, Deadpool pauses tapping a finger on his chin and looking at the ceiling considering what has been said.

"Well! She wouldn't stay if she didn't want to. Have fun Phil!" he waves, already halfway down the corridor towards the exit. [So, now you have left Ghost in Washington] {And don't forget Weasel in Vegas, no wonder you don't have any friends} I do, now they are in interesting places I can go and visit! He salutes the security guard who opens the doors for him at this late hour walking out into the cool night air, before… "How the hell am I supposed to get back to New York?!"

_Earlier…_

"Nick, how have you got me to agree to this?" Philip Coulson looks through the two-way glass into the interrogation room.

"Because, it's deal with this one," Nick gestures to the figure sat in the room, "Or if you would prefer you can spend the night dealing with Deadpool?" he leaves that hanging in the air before Coulson grabs the file from Nick.

"Fine, I'll speak to the Ninja. They blew it up, right? Good riddance." He mutters the last part under his breath leafing through the pages of hastily collated evidence before turning on his heels and heading into the interrogation room.

He hates the ones that wear masks, the door clicks quietly closed behind him and isolates the room from any exterior noise. He especially hates the ones that wear hoods over their masks because he's not sure if this person is even looking at him. He clears his throat as he sits, tucking his chair back under the table with a scrap across the hard floor, a noise entirely too loud for the room. The person across from him cocks their head to an angle, the overhead fluorescent light suddenly catching them differently make the skull pattern on their black mask prominent. Coulson's pretty sure he has their attention now. "Good evening, my name is Agent- "

"Pips." He's cut short by the computerized distortion of the voice calling him a nickname he's not heard in over 20 years. It throws him for a loop and he goes to speak but only succeeds in opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, "Pips, 1987." The figure repeats again adding the suffix of the year before folding their hands neatly in front of them, head still tilted examining the aging SHIELD Agent sat in their presence.

**England - Four Years Before Department K Abduction**

Elizabeth Warner eyed her teenage daughter suspiciously, looking for a tell as she shifted from foot to foot in the hallway of the two-bed terrace house they shared. "Mum, stop looking at me like that, I'll be fine."

"I'm allowed to worry, I _'m your Mother_ ," She mimics her daughter's whiny tone, "I'll be back in a few hours… Stay out of trouble." She runs a hand over her child's soft brown waves of hair before kissing her forehead and watching as Ilona rubs it away with the sleeve of her hoodie in disgust. She sighs says goodbye one last time before leaving.

Ilona watches from the window beside the front door until the car is out of site. Heart racing, she's up knocking the door of the attic open with a broom handle and hoisting herself inside, _thank you gymnastics class_. Fumbling in the feeble light that's coming in through the open hatch she grasps for the pull cord to illuminate the loft space.

It's not an impressive sight, the floor's half boarded with chipboard and the part that isn't is sickly yellow insulation. The air in here is dry and mots of dust are visible when they catch the light beams from the 40-Watt bulb hanging bare overhead. Empty boxes are stacked strategically to hide an elaborate reinforced metal trunk, it's what keeps bringing Ilona up here when nobody's home; she's been working the locks on it for a few weeks, and it's one pop away from springing open.

When her mother wouldn't answer questions about her father Ilona had gone looking for clues herself and she's pretty sure she's going to find them in here. She digs at the last barrel with a tomato knife and a safety pin blowing a stray lock of hair up out of her face. Then there's a barely audible click. Ilona stills, holding her breath as her pulse races in her ears. Trembling slim fingers pry underneath the lip of the trunk opening it on surprising well-oiled hinges.

She doesn't dare to look straight away. Her eyes flick down to the trunks contents then back up; looking but not looking, and suddenly being hit with a wave of nauseous guilt coupled with the adrenaline rush of nervous anticipation. She exhales slowly releasing her breath she's been holding then drops her head. It's full of photos, documents, letters, what looks like a polished metal badge catches the light, shaky hands scoop it from where it's resting; fingers trace the unfamiliar eagle insignia and her mother's name that's etched onto it before placing it carefully back. Ilona picks up a handful of photo's, her mother is in most of them dressed smartly with the eagle badge pinned neatly to her lapels; Ilona's doing her best not to leave fingerprints on the photo's as she turns each one, reading the comments written on the back, but the exposures are old, the fronts are tacky and sticking to her sweaty hands. She places them back in the trunk only to find a particularly stunning one of her mother in an evening dress, draped over the arm of a man, he's smiling down at her with body language that would suggest they are more than friends, Ilona flips the photo in her hands reading her mother's neat cursive writing on the back "Lizzy & Pips 1987" she looks at it a while longer before slotting it carefully into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie. Turning back to the trunk she spots an old parchment colored document, tri-folded, the 'registration of birth' heading just visible, this is what she's here for.

Her mother's faster than she is and the lid of the case slams shut with a loud THUWMP, Ilona lurches backwards in surprise with a yelp; looking up in bewilderment into the glowering teal eyes of Elizabeth Warner; Ilona had never seen her so angry, her face was fixed in a tight expression and was slowly reddening as she stared at her so hard it hurt; in-fact, _it burnt._

Ilona's skin tingled all over, then the tingling went deeper, turning her muscles to jelly and searing her insides; it made her eyes water and distorting her vision, she's blinking against it not sure whether she can even speak anymore; her mother's in front of her looking terrified any hint of anger has gone along with the color from her face. "Ilona!" she's shouting but it sounds garbled, distant, lost with a strange resonant echo; there's a rushing sound in her ears when she blacks out, filling her head with nothing but the sound. She doesn't even feel herself hit the ground.

"Ilona wake up for me." A gentle hand is nudging her shoulder, the teenager wakes up with a groan, cheek flush to the flagstone floor in the kitchen, Ilona feels like she's just fallen down a flight of stairs. "Oh, thank God!" her mother's face is streaked with tears and her usual impeccable makeup has run down her face leaving streaks of black down her sunken cheeks as she sits on the cold floor with her daughter. "You fell through the ceiling." She says quietly.

"Sorry, did I… step through the insulation." Ilona is winded trying to move to sit.

"No, you went through the floor, _like a Ghost._ "

**Triskelion Building – Theodore Roosevelt Island - Three Year After Department K Escape**

"I'm sorry, c-could you repeat that." Philip Coulson splutters, he's just about managed to come back online although his resolve is in tatters and he's been completely disarmed by being called his old pet name. His thoughts are a fuzzy haze of who this person might be and why they should know him by that name. The dark figure leans forward.

"I said 'Pips, 1987.'" Clearly speaking louder than before enunciating each word with force. "That's you isn't it?" they ask. Coulson is slightly alarmed that he can't tell if this person is angry or not, he's saved from answering when the door swings open and Director Fury storms in having been watching and listening through the two-way mirror.

"YOU! MASK OFF, SHOW ME YOUR FACE. NOW!" Both men jump when the dark figure leans back in the chair and their hands come up from the table, cuffs be damned Nick instinctively grabbing for his pistol and going on the offensive as the hood comes down and the dark figure peels their mask off.

It's not often Nick Fury is left speechless, he stares, longer than he should because he knows exactly who she is. She fell off SHIELDS radar when she was eighteen, missing presumed dead until three years ago her name and profile appeared in the Department K data this time _confirmed dead._ At the time Nick had wrestled with the decision of whether or not to tell her only known living relative and decided against it, he knew better than to throw a rock at a hornet's nest. Yet here she sat; fabric patch over her left eye with the hint of a scar just peeping out over the top and cutting through her eyebrow, dirt on her face and reeking of smoke from the fire, and what Nick couldn't quite believe, and what was possibly the most unsettling, she had the audacity to sit there looking like the spitting image of her father.

Ilona matches Nick stare, challenging him to look away first with a piercing green eye; he does, turning to Phil whose face is in his hands looking pained and weary, like it's too late at night and he's getting too old to keep dragging up the past. He can see the family resemblance to and he wonders how much Ilona knows, and suddenly the idea of sitting in a small interrogation room with Deadpool sounds like a better option than being sat here. "Take a break Phil, I'll have a chat with Miss Warner." Nick can't help but feel like he's just gained the upper hand by knowing her name, but also knowing he's at a disadvantage because he can't make Ilona stay if she doesn't want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't know how to make those shots that Wade and Weasel are drinking at the beginning but I do and they are pretty gross.
> 
> Peach Schnapps on the bottom, Irish Cream on the top and a splash of Grenadine straight through the middle - ta dah! And yes, yes they are chewy!


	3. The Avengers' Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working black ops for SHIELD in New York- AKA-Superhero Capital of the frickin' world, means that you run into 'Superheros' an awful lot; some .... not so helpful.

**New York – Five Years After Department K Escape**

"I guess, I just, I don't see why it takes three people." Spiderman sighs with a shrug, he knew despite his best arguments he couldn't win; somehow, he had ended up debating the inner workings of how sub sandwiches where made. He had his suspicions it's to do with fast food joint that was visible from their current vantage point atop a New York roof. "I mean, it's _one_ sandwich, handled by three people it's just asking for cross-contamination."

"But… But… You have one for the bread, another for the meatballs {ha-ha, balls} and the third one puts the chili sauce and that green stuff on it…" Deadpool's voice is raised a decibel or two in conviction as he counts up on his fingers.

"You mean the _salad? How_ is it you don't know what salad is?" Spiderman pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off a mercenary-related migraine. "Besides; I prefer the beef, with the ranch dressing." He shifts folding his arms in front of himself scanning the street below that's half illuminated with street lights.

"So, it's a _Reuben-Ranch-Relay_ [oh lord] for you then?" There's a pause, followed by a jab to the web-slingers ribs, "Do you get it?" The slap of Spiderman's facepalm echo’s above the din of late night New York _and_ Deadpool’s laughter, amused by his own antics even when nobody else is.

"You are such an idiot." He mumbles into the palm of his hand and watches through narrowing eyes until Deadpool stops giggling like a child and settles to do little more than fidget next to him on the roof. _"Seriously,_ if you are going to stay up here at least sit still…. How _do_ you keep finding me anyway?"

His question goes unanswered as soft footsteps from behind the two set off the minute reverberations of his Spider-Senses, not a full-blown 'duck and cover' reaction, more a whisper of danger prickling at the back of his neck. He's up and on his feet locking his stance and turning to face the intruder; Deadpool half turns to watch but remains perched on the edge of the building.

"You do realize I can see you both from the street, right?" A computerized voice comes from a seemingly invisible owner, there are more soft footsteps and the intruder steps into the light; they're barely visible, a moving shadow against the black of the night "What are you doing up here?"

"Talking about sandwiches." Deadpool answers, "more specifically _sub_ sandwiches." He turns back to look out over the street uninterested.

"Hmm, those places where 3 people handle your food, no thanks." The dark figure offers their half-hearted input to the conversation. "You weren't lying when you said that you _hung_ around with Spiderman." There's a slight nod of the head and a shifting of the material on their hood as they gesture towards the vigilante.

"I know right? That's another fifty bucks you owe me." Deadpool states with not even a glance back.

"I _didn't_ agree to that. You can't just put 'I bet you' in front of a statement and assume I've agreed to it." The intruder huffs, hands moving to grip their hips.

"Hey, we do not _hang_ around," Spiderman interjects half a conversation behind the others; however, he doesn't miss the pun intended in their comment as he stands straighter and puffs out his chest. He's taller than the gate-crasher, but as far as superhumans go, he's a little on the svelte side and it's all he can do to make himself look more intimidating. It's lost on the new arrival who signals for him to move with a gloved hand.

"Shift Spider-boy you're blocking my vantage point of that deadbeat New York alley." Spiderman does as he told, watching as the dark figure crouches and rests on their heels at the edge of the building close enough to Deadpool to backhand his leg. "Pick your feet up." They scold, Deadpool obligingly scoots back to sit cross-legged and peer over the edge.

"What are we looking at Spooky?" He asks craning his neck to the same angle as the intruder.

 _"Spooky?"_ Spiderman stifles a snigger. Deadpool bolts upright and strides over before dragging him to the edge of the building whilst he tries to wrestle out of his grip.

"You two haven't met! Spidey, Spooky, Spooky, Spidey."

"It's Ghost actually; and use your inside voices; you're going to scare off my mark." Succeeding in pushing Deadpool away with a mixture of super strength and annoyance Spiderman moves to crouch next to 'Ghost'. He debates offering a hand to shake but the way Ghost sits tight like a coiled spring has him rejecting the idea.

"So, you kill people like he does?" She doesn't need superhuman abilities to detect the disdain in his voice.

"No… Not tonight _Spidey_ , we're watching Deal or No Deal," Ghost answers and shifts, silently, wrists resting loosely on her knees. Spiderman scowls in her direction, it's an expression that's lost behind the lenses of his mask. Ghost speaks again, a low whisper that's just about picked up and distorted as she points to the scene below. "We have Dingus A over here with a holdall of the goods, and Dingus B approaching from the south with a pocket full of cash."

The three watch as the exchange takes place beneath the circular shaft of light from a flickering street lamp, "Well folks that looks like a deal." She announces triumphantly as a swift hand shoots out to grab Spiderman's arm who flinched to move and stop the disappearing drug dealer. "Let him go _Spidey_ , we need what this one's got in the bag." Ghost stands and matches the marks speed along the edge of the building, disappearing into the shadows and over the edge, dropping to the street below.

"I like your friends even less than I like you." Spiderman sneers through a pursed mouth to Deadpool who has stood up next to him.

"Yeah, she's something else." He answers disappearing after her jumping off the edge of the building with a loud _"Yeeha!"_ Absolutely no regard for stealth…. Or the landing.

 _"She?"_ There's a moment as a flustered Spiderman briefly wondering if in the short exchange on the roof he had managed to make an ass of himself in front of Deadpool's female friend; before he had to asked himself why he even cared.

He lands a little way in front of Ghost whose running after 'Dingus B' she's fast, long seamless strides catching up to the man who's being slowed down by the large holdall, but Spiderman is faster, webs shooting out to string up the escaping mark to the nearest lamp post; one of the most girlish shrieks Spiderman has ever heard a criminal make escapes the man as he flips upside down. Ghost skids to a halt next to the vigilante as Deadpool limps from the shadows, his left foot clearly broken after landing in some trash cans. "High five for the assist!" Deadpool yells, leather hand held above his head, the others sigh, and he gets left hanging.

"Hey, look man whatever you want I don't have it, you've got the wrong guy, I can get you money if that's what you want." The trio turn to the man hanging at an awkward angle face slowly reddening as blood rushes to his head.

"Looks like this one has worst verbal diarrhea than me! Don't blow your whole wad at once, or you'll have nothing to tell the cops." Deadpool laughs adjusting a pistol on his hip and twisting his foot back in place. Spiderman takes a step forward pulling the holdall loose from the webbing and grimaces at the merc patching himself back up out the corner of his eye.

"Hey man, you can't have that!" the man twists violently in his cocoon before going onto the offensive, "The papers are right about you, you are a menace. Wait until I tell them Spiderman deals in Class A Drugs." He spits thrashing fruitlessly against the webbing. Spiderman goes about pulled the bag free above his head.

"Well aren't we a ray of fucking sunshine." Ghost sneers hollow and toneless from behind the vigilante "Be nice or- "

**BANG!**

All four are stilled into silence by a single shot being fired; the sound reverberating in the small confines of the alley. "Sorry, my bad, just making sure it was still working, I landed on it." Deadpool pipes up once everybody's ears have stopping ringing. "Oops."

"Oops? What do you mean _oops?"_ Ghost rounds on him before she whirls back to their two other companions. Deadpool's shot went cleanly through the holdall, piercing the plastic wrapping around the blocks of ominous white powder and spilling a large portion of its contents directly onto the person below it - Spiderman, who was now, _a little surprisingly_ , still standing covered in a dusting of white from head to toe, with nothing to do but give a feebly cough against something that's already working through his system.

Ghost tenses watching the ridiculous scene playing out in front of her, it's like a low budget movie at a point where the plot just got so absurd you have to keep watching to see how it's going to end and poke fun at it later.

"FUCKING OOPS? THAT'S ALL YOU'VE GOT TO SAY?" Deadpool shrugs as Ghost shout, so loud the distorter whines with feedback. They watch as the holdall drops, then Spiderman drops, both wincing at his uncoordinated faceplant onto the tarmac. The mark's still hanging from the lamp post in his cocoon of webbing looking ridiculous.

Deadpool watches as Ghost's fist clench and unclench, she's doing her best 'count to ten' exercise that he sees people doing a lot in his presence. "I'm supposed to be alone tonight. I'm supposed to be _black ops_. How the _hell_ do I keep running into you?" She's muttering under her breath as she moves closer to the scene nudging the red and blue superhero with her foot who groans in response, "He's fine. _I'm out of here._ " Crouching next to the bag she rips a portion of her sleeve off and plugs the two holes made by the mercenary's pistol.

"But you can't leave!" Deadpool protests, "we haven't even taken a group selfie! Don't you want a picture with Spiderman?" Ghost would have looked at him incredulously had the mask not been over her face.

"He's _unconscious,_ so I think _I'll_ pass on the photo opportunity." She deadpans as she hoists the bag over her shoulder, "besides, I'm not entirely sure it wouldn't end up in the 'Daily Bugle' tomorrow, I have my suspicions that it's YOU who gives them all those photos of Spiderman, you're known for being a massive stalker."

"Man, _I wish_ " Deadpool shakes his head in aspiration, as Ghost makes to leave. "Wait, you can't leave me here with this." He gestures down at the scene underneath the thin pool of yellow light Ghost looks at the crumpled superhero and the upside-down criminal.

"It's not that bad, surely you've dealt with worse?" Had it of been anyone else Ghost would have been gone by now, but it was Wade, neurotic, dangerous, reckless Wade who no matter how many times she scalded, pushed him and told him he was an idiot; never turned her away when she showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night, drunk, bawling and having an identity crisis.

"Yeah but you're my accomplice this time. Annnd we can't just leave him here-" he points down at Spiderman who's stirring on the floor (albeit with some effort). Ghost puts the bag down in conceit.

"Why does it take three of you to mess this up so bad?" Deadpool and Ghost turn at the same time eye level with the upside-down criminal, he misses the tight jaws and flared nostrils before- BLAM!

"One problem dealt with, at least nobody knows how bigger amateurs we looked like tonight." [Spiderman is going to be seriously pissed when he wakes up] Meh, I just won't tell him we killed him, and if he finds out, we'll tell him Ghost did it. [Nice, stitch up your friend, a rare person who actually tolerates you, you really are something else].

Deadpool's second shot went cleanly through the marks skull and blew the contents out the back across the alley wall. "Eww." He examines the splatter of bone fragments and brain mush.

"When you're _done_ being disgusting, maybe you can help me over here." Ghost is trying to pull a barely conscious Spiderman to his feet, she's manages to manhandle him to a sitting position before he hopelessly flops back; Deadpool slings the holdall Ghost dropped over his back, at the same time admiring her ability to not so much as look in the direction of the dead man dripping on the concrete. She was either so used to it that it didn't even register as bad anymore or she was doing her best to ignore it. It's hard to tell with the mask.

He pulls one of Spiderman's arms over his shoulders dragging him up to stand, Ghost moves swiftly to pull his other arm over her own much slimmer shoulders, thankful that there's only a small height difference.

"Come on Spidey, one foot in front of the other." Deadpool sings dragging the smaller superhero along as Ghost takes the uneven weight from the other side trying to match the merc's pace.

Ghost did not possess super strength, she was built for agility, the heavy lifting-not so much. For the fifth time in ten minutes she manages to falter out of step with Deadpool and take the full weight of another, much heavier person, " _Ouff_ , Deadpool, where are we going, I thought we were dumping him in a taxi then leaving him to it?"

"This is Spiderman, we can't just-" Deadpool pauses, clears his throat and puts on a bad British accent, " _'dump him in a taxi'_. Honestly Ghost, where's your loyalty?"

 _"Why_ would I have loyalty to Spiderman? _And where are we going?"_ Ghost huffs attempting to shift the weight she's carrying. "And stop taking the piss out of my accent." She mumbles.

"Stark Tower, that's home for my boy here." Deadpool claps a hand across Spiderman’s chest who groans in response.

 _"Of course, you know where he lives, you're a massive stalker."_ Ghost mutters.

The next three city blocks the trio walk to get to Stark Tower are arduous, it's late at night so _luckily_ the streets are (mostly) deserted; Ghost can't help but give thanks for the part-time street lighting which means only one in three are actually on.

They manage to successfully avoid any of New York's late-night residents by dodging down back alleys, although neither Deadpool or Ghost have super senses so it's more a case of Deadpool shoving Spiderman into a back alley and the inertia shoving Ghost down there along with him every time they hear somebody approaching that little bit too late.

"Oh, thank God I can see the tower!" Ghost could almost cry, she was supposed to be done and back to the SHIELD base in New York within the hour, by now she has well and truly had enough "This guy's a dead weight, and heavier than he looks." Ghost jostles the Superhero they’ve managed to drag between them with her shoulder, her arm that is still anchored around his back is screaming in protest and threatening to give at any moment; secretly she's glad Deadpool grabbed the holdall and slung it over his shoulder so she hadn't had to carry that too.

"You could say, 'he has the proportionate _dead weight_ of a spider'." [oh, that was painful] Deadpool manages a little breathlessly as they come to the bottom of the steps up to the Tower.

"So, what the plan, just prop him up against the door and run?" Ghost looks over to the mercenary with so much hope in her voice "I really don't fancy ringing the doorbell this late at night…"

"We can't leave him on the steps! He's drugged, any number of his highly elaborated, well-imagined enemies could come along and then what might happen?!" Deadpool is gesturing wildly with his one free hand making Ghost bare more of the weight than she's capable of holding like this.

 _"Help! Help! Help!"_ She buckles.

"Whoops! Sorry!" Deadpool rights himself and hoists Spiderman back up who lets out an obligatory groan. "See even he agrees with me." He pauses as they mount the stairs. "Out of curiosity what has he been drugged with?"

"That's what I was doing tonight, trying to get hold of this." Ghost gestures to the bag evading the question and almost missing a step in the process. "I'm in New York picking up leads on all these weird new drugs, slash, trying to find what they are made from, needed it before it gets cut with anything else, a half decent sample to take back, SHIELD is trying to figure out the source, hence the bag, although your bullet probably contaminated it. Thanks for that by the way;" she manages breathlessly before adding, "And thanks for this. I _love_ dragging drugged Superhero's back to their homes across New York late at night." They're nearing the glass.

"You're going to ask me to do the thing," she sighs as her steps slow to a halt.

"Do the thing Spooky!" Deadpool bounces, Ghost is about to take them all through solid glass he watches her sigh again and drop her head, it's followed by everything going strangely muffled and slow; like moving through fog and being weightless but grounded all at the same time, it was disorientating. He couldn't move his limbs the way he wanted, they wouldn't respond fast enough, he turns his head and there's a delay between the movement and his vision catching up, the world ripples around them as he can do little but follow Ghost, she's stronger like this pulling him and Spiderman along and through the glass in their intangible forms before they are in standing in the middle of the lobby of Stark Towers.

The world comes rushing back into sharp focus; every noise seems that little bit too loud, the scarce light of the deserted lobby that little bit too bright as Ghost goes back to her tangible self. It's left an odd knot in Deadpool's stomach and everything is tingling as if feeling has just returned after an extended period of pins and needles.

"You OK? Now what?" Ghost is looking around; the lobby is plush, plusher than anything at SHIELD; in the weak light cast from the emergency lighting she can make out massive domineering glass cabinets the slight glint of something mechanical inside; she wants a closer look but knows better at a time like this; with a nod from the merc they both bend and lay the drugged vigilante down in the middle of the marble floor.

"He's going to get a numb arse on that floor." Ghost's already distracted not looking at him as she speaks, to busy looking at the high ceiling that goes up at least ten or twelve floors, balconies look out over the lobby with acoustic batons running all the way up. She is tipping back on her heels threatening to fall backwards when Deadpool breaks her from her daydream pushing the holdall into her chest.

"I left a note, let's go!" They are both out the door; "I have one more question for you Spooky," he watches as his companion dusts herself off atop the steps, "not that I don't approve of making things unnecessarily complicated for the sake of putting on a good show, but why go after the guy who bought the drugs and not the one supplying them?" Ghost looks down.

"I need the suppliers to think things have gone off without a hitch, I still need them for information."

"What information?"

"That parts classified Deadpool."

"Yeah, I guess," he answers lightly. Ghost thinks she can detect a hint of dejection in his voice. "You know, pulling shit like this is always more fun when we're both drunk."

"Yeah…. I’ll, I'll see you around Wade." Ghost goes left, Deadpool goes right.

**SHIELD Headquarters – New York**

Ghost slunk back to her quarters with a bag full of evidence she should have dropped off a good three hours ago. By now it was too late; everybody would have turned in for the night; so, it would have to wait until morning, Ghost could wait until the morning for the inevitable ass-kicking from the Director. The rooms in the New York HQ were amicable enough, like a three-star hotel room, comfortable, warm but distinctly missing the creature comforts of home.

Ghost shucked what was left of her ninja suit having ripped it with a few clumsy moves (she chalked up to being tired) on the way back across the New York skyline. She dropped her hood and peeled off her mask taking her patch with it. Blinked against the sudden intrusion of harsh light, her fingers idly traced the scar which went from her eyebrow to her cheekbone and cut cleanly through her distorted excuse for a left eyeball in a neat white slash.

She tugged at the quick releases on her weapon holsters neatly arranging them on the dresser, wondering whether it the SHIELD agent she had become or the victim she once was that makes her so OCD and anal about her weaponry; always neat, clean, lined up and within reach.

She catches sight of herself in the full-length mirror, pausing to examining her leather under armor before shedding that too, letting it fall to her feet in a fleshy heap; leaning into the mirror she studies her reflection even closer then. Her waist was pulled in tighter than it ever had been and her ribs were ever so slightly prominent below the hollow of her throat; somewhere along the line in the past two years doing black operations for SHIELD her body had been honed into something much sleeker and destructive than it ever had been; she sighed feeling the cool breeze coming in through the open skylight on her naked flesh, it was a welcome distraction against her tired skin as she flopped heavily on the bed in a graceless motion; rolling over to lay like a starfish and look up at the stars through the window she had to smile; Pips always saw to it that she had a room with a skylight when she stayed away from the Triskelion Building, he knew that was the only way he'd be certain she closed the drapes at night, he always made sure she was looked after.

_The next morning…._

**Stark Tower**

Spiderman wakes to a repetitive clicking which feels like it is reverberating in his skull, he attempts to put his hands up to hold his head still, sit up – move anything. 

Everything is numb and cold; the clicking is getting louder and he at least manages to open his eyes, it takes some effort and as feeling starts to come back he isn't sure which limb to rub first, right now he feels more pins and needles than man.

A pair of dangerous red heels come into focus; their owner leans down to snag something which has been stuck to his forehead. "'Sorry, drugged Spidey by accident. Love DP & G.'" They read aloud; efficiently and unimpressed. Pepper sighs planting her hands on her hips at the top of her pencil skirt "Peter, what on earth are you doing in the lobby?"

**SHIELD Headquarters – New York**

"So, I had a phone call." Nick pauses looking up at the person sat the opposite side of his desk. "At _stupid_ o'clock this morning, I might add." Ilona flinches, gaze fixed firmly on her shoes. "From the CEO of Stark Industries. _Apparently,_ somebody was kind enough to drop Spiderman off home late last night.” Ilona’s fairly certain Nick pauses just to watch her squirm. “Not before they drugged him, and I quote 'by accident'. Oh, he's fine by the way.” He brushes off, sipping his coffee before steepling his hands in front of himself on the desk. “So, do you want to tell me what happened?" Ilona sighs and slumps before she recounts the details of the previous evening and the trouble she ran into of the black, red and blue variety.

"It was supposed to be low profile," Nick says evenly after hearing what she has to say.

"They were sat on the building swinging their legs over the side like a…” Ilona gestures looking for the right words. _“Like a pair of kids."_ She leans forward in her chair. "How is it my fault the Avenger's pet got out? If he had of stayed out of it, then Deadpool wouldn't have got involved!” She jabs her chest voices raising wildly “I got you want you wanted! What's the problem?" Nick _lowers_ his voice to answer, attempting to restore some level of calm.

"You're a member of the Shadow Force. The nature of the operations that they undertake means that interaction with the other SHIELD teams is to be kept to an absolute minimum." He stresses before Ilona cuts in.

"Yes Nick, Shadow Force is a deep-fried SHIELD conspiracy, never seen therefore never appreciated, yadahyadahyadah. I get it, I've heard it before." She paused before punctuating her next sentence for effect. "Like. I. Said. It's not MY fault the Avengers PET was out playing with a pre-chewed mercenary toy and they both happened to be where I needed to be. I had known that deal was going to take place for the past two weeks and I reacted accordingly when I was thrown two massive curveballs. Nobody got hurt-"

"Police found a man shot dead face down in the street, or I should say, _what was left of his face_ , in a pile of very strong opiates," Nick says calmly folding his arms on his desk.

"Nobody _innocent_ got hurt." Ilona offers scuffing the floor with her converse shoes.

"Get out of my office,” He exasperates, rubbing his temples. “I have to come up with an explanation as to how you _and Deadpool_ got in and out of Stark Tower without setting off that ridiculously overpowered security system."

Ilona is dismissed slinking out of Director Fury's office; she passes Philip Coulson in the foyer with a curt nod, pulling her jacket around herself a bit tighter; it's not an idle gesture. It's a warning, 'I don't want to talk.'

Nick leans back in his chair replaying the security footage he had been sent of the Stark Tower Lobby for the 5th time, he's not sure what's impressing him more (not that he would _admit_ to being impressed by any of it), the quality of the playback, the fact that _despite_ the quality of the playback Ghost is barely more than moving shadow and is given away by sliver of exposed skin on her arm, or the fact that Deadpool appears to be co-operating with her. 

She wasn't quite the polished agent that Nick would have preferred to be on SHIELD's enigmatic Shadow Force and he had originally been against the idea when Coulson had pitched it. Had you have told him she would end up as one of the key members of SHIELDS most covert teams two years ago when she had sat in front of him in one of the interrogation rooms, he would have scoffed at the idea, but he had to admit she had proven time and time again to be level-headed and composed in bad situations. She had turned out to be a formidable foe when she was chucking around her Kusari blades, plus even he couldn't deny that the walking through walls came in _very_ useful for a team that took on black ops.

Nick is pulled from his thoughts by a knocking on his door and Philip Coulson walking straight on in. When you have been colleagues for as long as they have you didn't wait at the threshold to be invited. "Morning Nick, I just saw Ilona in the lobby, she didn't look happy…"

"She'll learn." Nick states closing the security footage, Coulson hums in response and sits down in one of the vacant chairs across from him as the Director looks around his computer screen. "You heard where she was last night?" He asks sipping lukewarm coffee.

"Yes, well I guessed from the description it was her. It wasn't just you Pepper phoned this morning. Also, _and here's a fun one._ " Coulson fishes his phone out of his pocket. Swiping at the touch screen "Tony Stark has had some sort of freak out that they didn't trip the security system, so he's been speaking to our friend Deadpool. It's safe to say he now knows Ghost is one of ours and wants to meet her, I'm not entirely sure _what for_ , but I have my suspicions it's not to discuss the inner workings of an alarm system over a friendly coffee." Coulson sighs, "I'm running out of excuses here Nick, he's bombarded me with messages. The guy's usually dead to the world until midday and it's not even 10 o'clock." Coulson shifts in his seat fiddling with the phone he's still got in his hand; jumping when it buzzes to alert him to _another_ message. 

A heavy silence fell in Nick's office. "I could have done without this this morning," Coulson says flatly as his phone buzzes again, this time he puts it face down on the desk between the two men. Nick glances at it then back up to the agent. "It would be a bad idea, wouldn't it Nick? To tell them I mean…" Coulson trails off staring at his face down phone, eyes glazed over like he's looking but not seeing. There's a beat of silence as Nick chooses his words carefully, painfully aware that he is about to negotiate a minefield.

"Phil, I know what happened between you and Elizabeth was… _Shit._ " He pauses because what he's about to say had been on the tip of his tongue for two years. "But it doesn't make Ilona your responsibil- "

"But she _should_ have been!" Coulson stands up and shouts through bared teeth knocking his chair backwards before the Director can finish his sentence, he stalks over to the window. Nick rubs his eye, affronted by the sudden shift in the Agent's temperament, he was going to need _a lot_ more than tepid coffee to get through Coulson having a meltdown.

"She should have been mine," Coulson repeats staring out of the window and running a worn hand through his hair that was frosted with grey.

A faint haze of mist is lingering in the street below, it's just enough to make the outlines of objects and people a slight blur from this height. "You know, everybody thought she was. Well, _until_ Elizabeth moved back to England." He glances over his shoulder back to Nick for affirmation.

"It wasn't your fault Phil, Elizabeth was a very well-respected agent, but what she did was cruel."

Coulson jabs at his chest with his finger as he speaks through an expanding lump in his throat, " _I_ told her to leave, _I_ told her I never wanted to see her or the baby again.”

“I thought... I thought I could handle it, I thought we could be a happy family, but I couldn't get passed it and Lizzy knew, it tore us apart… _It tore me apart_. Of all the people to sleep with..." Nick watches as Phil leans on his hands and slumps his shoulders with a slight shake.

People crying always made Nick Fury uncomfortable, he squirms in his chair. "I would have done the same." He says clearing his throat, pulling wrinkles out of his sleeves and doing his best not to look at Coulson. "I wouldn't have even entertained the idea of playing happy families." It comes out colder than he meant it to, but Nick has no desire for children, so the idea of raising a child that isn't even yours was unfathomable and damn right alien. He looks at his hands resting on his desk, listening awkwardly as Coulson snivels, and eventually goes quiet. The silence that follows stretches taut, hanging there like the mist that’s thickening in the street.

"Ilona asked me about her mother's time at SHEILD," Coulson straightens up, shifting his hands from the windows sill and clasped them behind his back.

"I told her that she was one of the few Agents to be open about being a mutant; that she was _brilliant_ because she could read minds; those jade green eyes really could see into people's souls." He pauses again. "I lied to her Nick." There is an ever so slight drop in Coulson's shoulders at the admission. "I told her she looked like her mother, I told her that her mother would have been proud of her because I thought it was what I should say." He stops to draw a breath. "Does it make me a bad person, that when there was the Hydra attack in London, you remember the one." Coulson turns away from the window and sits at Nick's desk. "Elizabeth was the target and she got killed, it felt like a weight had been lifted, one I had carried for fifteen years because I had nothing left for her but hate, _fifteen years_ had made me bitter." Coulson hunches forward elbows propped on his knees as his hand moves to rake through his hair again.

"If I remember it correctly," Nick offers leaning back in his chair. "I had to physically stop you from taking a jet across the Atlantic to go and find Ilona. I think you had something other than hate or else you wouldn't have cared. The way you felt back then, it made you human."

"And how did stopping me work out?" Coulson replies narrowing his eyes to a scowl and sitting up straighter.

"We had to protect her from a world she was too young to understand Phil. It wasn't until five years ago we found out that she was being watched." Nick is done with this two-year conversation loop they seem to be stuck in, he's done with Phil, and he’s done with Phil's insistent mobile phone which has been buzzing on his desk for the past twenty minutes, _nothing_ Nick is going to say is going to be right anyway, _nothing Nick ever says to Coulson about Ilona is right._

"She ended up in captivity for two years, in the hands of evil people who gave her a useless telepathic eye she can't focus or control and a healing factor she didn't want. That wouldn't have happened if I had made her my responsibility twenty-five years ago." Coulson is _not done_ and still harboring some guilt issues.

"Phil what happened; happened. _Hindsight is a wonderful thing_. Ilona wasn't your responsibility then and she's not now. If anybody should feel guilty-" He stops before he finishes his sentence as he sees the pre-emptive flinch of contempt from the agent sat across from him.

"I can't, I can't do this now Phil. _Go home_ , we'll talk tomorrow." It's the second person Nick has had to give the day off to today, he watches a deflated Philip Coulson drag his feet all the way out of his office.

The SHIELD Director leans back in his imposing leather chair with a slight creek; he exhales rubbing his temples again with more vigour than before and hits the play button on the Stark Tower footage one last time. The phone Agent Coulson has left on his desk starts to vibrate, again. "Phil wasn't kidding." He mutters to himself thumbing through the messages that have come in from a, by now, rather irate at being ignored Tony Stark.

Nick sighs somewhere between exasperation and exhaustion, he has a nagging feeling he can't escape; he's pushed it down for years and kept secrets in the name of the US government and public safety, but the past, it's an ugly thing and one of the few things that truly scared the SHIELD Director. Now it's hovering, surfacing just on the peripherals of his vision, ever so slightly out of his reach, he can brush it with his fingertips but can't grasp it to push it back down.

He opens a long-abandoned file on his computer, removing Agent Philip Coulson's access to it; he's tortured himself enough over Ilona Warner, he didn't need to go reading the gruesome detail of her time in captivity… _Again._


End file.
